


Of Tarot Cards and Table Settings

by kisahawklin



Series: The tarot card series [1]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, Food, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-11
Updated: 2009-12-11
Packaged: 2017-10-04 08:27:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kisahawklin/pseuds/kisahawklin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodney's the new chef in town, and the apartment Ronon found for him is <i>perfect</i>... except for the shop downstairs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Tarot Cards and Table Settings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silverraven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverraven/gifts).



Rodney stares at the three-story rowhouse in disbelief, digging his cell phone out of his pocket and jabbing his finger at it. He almost wishes Ronon wasn't on speed dial so he could push more buttons angrily.

_"Yeah?"_

"A tarot reading shop? Really?"

Ronon's gruff laugh comes over the line and Rodney frowns harder. _"Been inside the apartment yet?"_

"No, the landlady is late, I don't know why I expected–" A light tap on his shoulder makes him turn around. There's a petite, ethereally beautiful woman wryly smiling at him. "Gotta go," he says to Ronon and hangs up.

"Rodney McKay, I presume?"

She doesn't seem to want to shake hands, so he counts his blessings and answers her. "Yes, and I'm afraid my friend didn't tell me your name…"

"Teyla Emmagen," she says with a slight nod. "Ronon tells me you're new to the East Coast." She leads the way up to the house, thankfully to a much less conspicuous door than the bright purple one that adorns the tarot shop, and that eases his mind slightly.

"I lived in New York for a while," he answers, following her up the steps trying to look anywhere except at her ass, "but it wasn't really my style."

She laughs and opens the door. "Understandable. Baltimore isn't anything like New York."

She doesn't have to tell him that, but his sarcastic reply is caught in his throat. The door to the apartment opens to a small mud room right off the kitchen, and he can see the marble countertops from here.

"Ronon said you needed a 'fully decked-out kitchen' so we made some improvements to it after the last tenant moved out. I hope they are to your satisfaction."

The kitchen is huge, with a double oven, six-burner gas range, and a nice sized island for prep, on top of all the counter space under the incredible amount of cabinets. A walk-in pantry, side by side refrigerator and standalone freezer seal the deal. Even if the rest of the place is a hovel (which, judging by Teyla's quiet composure, is extremely unlikely), he'll sleep in the kitchen.

"Obviously it's an end unit, so you only have neighbors on one side – and not the side with the bedroom," Teyla says, grinning, "so you won't be woken up by them, not that they're loud." The rest of the place turns out to be just as gorgeous as the kitchen. Teyla gives him the tour, pointing out the hardwood floors, separate dining room, a loft-style second floor bedroom suite, and she even asks him about his cat. He could kiss her. Well, maybe hug her.

The only problem is… "So, the shop downstairs?"

She shrugs delicately. "He is quite discreet."

Rodney doubts that, judging from the cherry red Porsche Boxter he can see from the deck off the kitchen, parked in one of the two parking spaces below. He starts work in three days, so he can hardly look for another apartment, not to mention she has his security deposit. Besides, there's the kitchen to consider.

"It will do, I suppose," he says airily, and Teyla drops the keys into his palm.

"Welcome to Baltimore," she says, smiling her entrancing smile and letting herself out.

He sighs and calls Ronon back. "Fine, you were right."

* * *

He drives to the Whole Foods after making sure the movers haven't destroyed all his furniture, and it takes him twenty minutes circling the market before he gives up on finding a parking spot and drives into the ramp across the street. Eight dollars is highway robbery, but there doesn't seem to be any other choice.

He starts with the produce. He has to know what's available before he can even think about a menu. There's a guy with artfully tousled hair hanging around the cantaloupes that makes Rodney laugh as he shakes one next to his ear. Rodney walks up to the stand, picks two, squeezes and smells them, and puts the unripe one back.

Porcupine-head follows Rodney around the produce section like a lost puppy, picking through the produce and testing each one in the exactly the same way Rodney did a moment before, and Rodney studiously ignores him.

He follows Rodney to the cheese section, smelling all the cheeses Rodney smelled, in the same order Rodney smelled them. Rodney picks up a hunk of limburger and inhales deeply, making sure to sigh audibly as he exhales.

He waits for the slouching wonder to get a good sniff of the limburger, and he has to give the guy credit, he makes a face but doesn't cough or throw the cheese back. He does notice Rodney watching, though, and sidles over to Rodney's cart.

"Rodney McKay," Rodney says, reaching down for a hunk of Gruyère.

"John Sheppard." Sheppard sticks his hand out to be shaken. When Rodney hesitates, he pulls it back and shoves it in his back pocket, which makes him seem even slouchier. "So, are you some kind of produce savant?"

Rodney rolls his eyes. "Chef," he answers, waiting for the recognition. The Sun did a piece on him a couple of weeks ago when word got out that the Marriott Waterfront Hotel hired him to overhaul their restaurant into something that could get them a Michelin star. He has his doubts about Michelin _ever_ granting a star to Baltimore, but if it's possible, he's the man to do it.

Sheppard doesn't even blink. "So for a first date, asking you over for dinner is probably not the way to go."

Rodney takes a look at the random assortment of fruits, vegetables, and cheeses in Sheppard's basket. "For what, exactly? Corn and plum compote on a jicama salad with gorgonzola cheese?" He eyes Sheppard's cheese selection, the only thing he can approve of.

"Hey," Sheppard says feelingly. "I have other talents."

The sheer stubbornness of this guy is weirdly appealing. Rodney takes out a business card and scribbles his address on it.

"One of them better be picking out movies," he says, handing over the card. "Seven pm, don't be late."

Sheppard looks down at the card and Rodney hurries away. He doesn't want Sheppard following him to seafood.

"What, tonight?" Sheppard calls after him.

* * *

Rodney hasn't had a date in what feels like forever. There was a fair amount of fooling around in culinary school, but that's twenty years behind him, and most of the people who cook for a living are either drunks or work themselves so hard they don't think about things like _dating_.

He's checked out every restaurant in Baltimore as much as he can from his computer; it's time to go into the trenches. He can't get reservations for Woodberry Kitchen this late (though he wonders if throwing his name around will work; he hopes he can expect a better response than Sheppard's blank look but doesn't dare risk it just yet), so he decides to try the Black Olive.

Sheppard knocks on the front door at seven o'clock exactly, which surprises the hell out of Rodney. He's ready to go, but he expected to have to wait for a good half an hour for Sheppard to show up. At this point, they're going to be too early for their reservations.

"Come on up!" Rodney calls, suddenly nervous. He feels like he should do something, have something in his hands. He picks up a whisk to twirl in his fingers and then changes his mind and sets it back down as Sheppard comes banging up the stairs. He stops at the landing, briefly, considering the mud room and the kitchen beyond it. Rodney takes one look at Sheppard and slaps a hand over his eyes, groaning.

"Jeans and a t-shirt? Who goes on a first date in jeans and a t-shirt?" He wipes his hand down his face, staring at Sheppard from between his splayed fingers and considering taking him to Red Robin as punishment. He thinks better of it when he realizes Sheppard probably _likes_ Red Robin.

Sheppard holds up a bottle. "I didn't think it would matter..." He glances into Rodney's kitchen, frowning a bit. Rodney turns around, wondering if he forgot something, because there is absolutely no reason for anyone to frown at his kitchen, unless...

"You thought I was going to cook for you?" Rodney asks, glancing at the reasonably good bottle of Claret. "What have you done to earn that?"

Some of the natural composure slides off Sheppard's face, and there's a brief second where he looks shocked before he slips back into his obviously practiced charm. "I thought you liked me, McKay," he says, handing over the wine. "Besides, I brought the right kind of wine to go with lamb."

Rodney laughs, and it's kind of nice to see Sheppard's eyes crinkle up as he laughs too. "That was for my friend Ronon, who found me this apartment. _He_ gets dinner." He grimaces. "Even if there is a tarot card reader downstairs."

Sheppard's smile goes stiff, and Rodney grins, amused at the way he's keeping Sheppard off-balance. Usually he sucks at this. "You, on the other hand, don't even deserve the restaurant I'm taking you to." He looks Sheppard up and down pointedly.

Sheppard chuckles, in a studied sort of way. Rodney's having second thoughts about this guy's practiced charm. It's a little creepy.

"I don't have anything as distinguished as that," he says, looking over Rodney's Italian silk with a raised eyebrow, "but let me go pull something together." He clatters back down the stairs, and before Rodney can blink, the front door is slamming shut.

Rodney debates opening the Claret while he waits, but decides to save it for when Sheppard does something to earn dinner. Besides, the Black Olive is supposed to have an impressive wine list. He putters about the apartment, Auguste purring underfoot as he paces the living room. Now he has to worry about being late for his reservations, which is only marginally better than being too early, and only if they don't give his table away.

He gets on the mini laptop he keeps in the kitchen and checks the restaurant's fish selection again. He's feeling like sea bass, but he's not sure whether or not he wants Mediterranean or black sea bass. He hasn't even gotten to the wine list before the front door opens and Sheppard is climbing the stairs to his apartment again.

Rodney can't quite believe Sheppard's speed. "What the hell did you do, teleport?" he asks, glad he got his crack in before Sheppard comes into view, because he's in an entirely black outfit, from suit to open-necked shirt to the aviators sitting on his face. It's a good look on him; Rodney must be staring, because Sheppard's smirk is pretty smug when Rodney finally drags his eyes back up to Sheppard's face. He's also standing close, and Rodney wonders with more than a little bewilderment how Sheppard moved into his personal space - which pretty much includes his entire kitchen.

"I live nearby," Sheppard says, almost whispers, and that's when Rodney realizes he's stepped in a little too close to be polite.

Rodney doesn't have any idea why he leans forward, like Sheppard's a gravity well, reeling Rodney in by his sheer existence. Sheppard's leaning too, and it's as natural as breathing to kiss him, a warm brush of the lips to say hello, as if that's the way Rodney greets everyone in his kitchen. Sheppard's heavy hand on the back of his neck keeps him close, their mouths not quite touching, Sheppard's hot breath on his lips. Rodney closes his eyes and lets himself be drawn in. For a second he panics about where to put his hands - anywhere on Sheppard's body feels too intimate, so he settles for Sheppard's collar, trying to gain some leverage of his own. Sheppard's head tips back and Rodney sucks on his lower lip for a second before the rational part of his brain reasserts itself, and forces him to let go.

"Um," Rodney says, taking a step back and bumping up against the butcher block. He gropes behind him for the keys, knocking over the bottle of wine and cringing.

He fumbles the wine upright, grabs the keys and hustles Sheppard out the door. They're still likely to be early, but at this point Rodney doesn't care. He wants to get Sheppard out of his apartment and somewhere it would be inappropriate to grope someone he's just met. He doesn't normally stand for social conventions, but that might be the only way he keeps himself from doing something ridiculously tawdry before they can even get to their first date.

"I can drive," Sheppard says, and Rodney would protest, but Sheppard must know Baltimore better than he does, and besides, he's dying to know what kind of car Sheppard has.

"Okay," Rodney says, surveying the street to see if he can pick out Sheppard's vehicle. Sheppard rounds the corner next to Rodney's apartment and Rodney's not done cataloging all the junkers on the block when Sheppard flips the latch on the gate to Rodney's garage.

"That's a little presumptuous, isn't it?" Rodney asks, but a glance at the two parking spaces reveal his own silver TT and the tarot guy's Porsche. "Wait, did you mean you could drive _my_ car?" That's _really_ presumptuous, but he wouldn't put it past slacker boy not to have wheels.

"Rodney," Sheppard says, the exasperation so clear that it sounds like his voice rolled its eyes. "_This_ is my car."

Rodney stares at the convertible, wondering how long John's been stalking him. The car has been parked there since he moved in. It takes a full minute for him to realize that Sheppard must live downstairs, which means that Sheppard is the tarot card reader.

"Charlatan," he says, shaking a finger at Sheppard. "Snake oil salesman. You… you… _liar_!"__

"Whoa there, Rodney," Sheppard says, putting his hands up like he expects Rodney to pull out a gun and shoot him. It's a good thing Rodney's a pacifist, because he'd consider it, if a gun magically appeared in his pocket. "I never lied to you."

"You... you... at the grocery store! And with..." Rodney's hands wave up and down Sheppard's body. "Kissing! And... no." Rodney shakes his head violently, wishing he could undo the last two days of his life. "No, you are not welcome. Not at my table, not in my kitchen, not anywhere _near_ me."

He turns around and storms into the house, his appetite entirely ruined.

* * *

The alarm goes off at six thirty, and Rodney groans into his pillow. He should never have had the whole bottle of wine, regardless of how well it went with the cheese. His head is pounding.

He gets out of bed, meanly stomping his way down the stairs to get his coffee. He clomps around the kitchen too, hoping he wakes Sheppard up. The hours on the tarot shop are all in the evening, and judging by Sheppard's lax attitude, he probably sleeps until noon. He doesn't know the layout of the place, but Sheppard's apartment is behind the tarot shop, so his bedroom has to be under Rodney's kitchen or dining room. He stamps around a little while longer before heading up to the shower.

* * *

Rodney's just soaped up when the hot water runs out.

"Ohhhhh," he yells, shivering through rinsing off. "This means _war_."

Teyla told him they have a huge water heater for this place, that the previous tenant never ran out of hot water, and she took thirty minute showers every morning. He shampoos his hair faster than he ever has in his life, and stomps through the entire apartment for good measure before leaving for the Marriott.

* * *

When Rodney gets home after ten hours of arguing about everything from the design of the kitchen to the color of the napkins, the tarot shop is open. There's a gaudy neon light in the front window, blinking through the letters of OPEN and then flashing the entire word at him before starting again. Rodney rolls his eyes and stomps up the stairs to start dinner for Ronon. He never goes fancy for Ronon, but doing lamb is not exactly a no-brainer. He dresses the lamb and gets it in the oven and starts on the batter for the strawberry shortcake Ronon won't leave without.

After a few minutes, he starts to smell something that's not the lamb in his oven. It smells like... steak. He opens the sliding door off the kitchen to step onto his deck. His deck is smallish; not even big enough for a table and chairs, much less a grill. He'd seen the gorgeous gas grill on the cement slab beneath his deck when he moved in; he'd even debated trying to make friends with the tarot card guy to get use of that grill. The grill that now holds two of the most perfectly marbled steaks he's ever seen. His mouth is watering just looking at them.

The sliding door to the deck below opens, and Rodney can see Sheppard through the cracks in his deck. It's a narrow slice of Sheppard, but he moves out from under Rodney's deck and over to the grill, and Rodney has to turn around to avoid eye contact.

Ronon calls from the bottom of the stairs and Rodney pokes his head into the kitchen to yell for him to come up. Ronon always makes himself at home at Rodney's, so when he comes out onto the porch, he has a beer in hand. He raises it at Rodney and nods his head Sheppard's direction. "That the tarot guy?"

Rodney nods, glancing over his shoulder at Sheppard. Sheppard waves his tongs at Rodney with a huge smirk on his face, flipping the steaks and shutting the cover on the gas grill. Rodney raises one corner of his mouth in return, showing his teeth a little. He looks up at Ronon, one of the most handsome men he knows, and comes up with the perfect plan for getting back at Sheppard.

"Hey Ronon," Rodney says, because warnings are good before attempting a stupid prank with someone who can break you in half, "do me a favor, and go with this, okay?"

Ronon's eyebrows climb, but he shrugs, tracking Rodney closely as he steps in and puts his hand on Ronon's neck to pull his face down. He's never been more grateful for Ronon's unconditional trust when Ronon closes his eyes and accepts Rodney's kiss. He even plays it beautifully, putting a solid hand between Rodney's shoulder blades, and lifting Rodney until he's on the balls of his feet.

Rodney's a little breathless when he finally pulls away, more because Ronon's beard is smothering him than because of anything between them, which they decided years ago was absolutely nothing. Rodney turns around to make sure he's wiped the smirk off Sheppard's face and is surprised by the stormy expression that's taken over Sheppard's usually placid demeanor. Sheppard stalks back into his apartment, slamming the sliding door shut behind him.

"So how's Melena?" Rodney asks, and Ronon laughs so hard he snorts beer out his nose.

* * *

Halfway through dinner, the smell of something burning wafts into the dining room. Rodney runs around the apartment looking for the cause before Ronon calls him out onto the deck. Smoke is billowing out from under the lid of the grill downstairs.

The steaks have got to be charcoal by now. That's a criminal misuse of two beautiful pieces of meat. He can see Sheppard's car in the back, so he hasn't abandoned them, but at this point, it's smell pollution. He considers climbing down the fire escape and at least taking them off the grill, if not chucking them to the rats in the alley.

Rodney hears the sliding door open, and he's almost grateful for Sheppard's presence until he realizes in the dim light, that it's not Sheppard. This man is shorter – a good deal shorter – and much broader. His hair is less ridiculous as well.

He opens the lid to the grill, coughing and waving away the smoke, and pulls the steaks onto a plate, grimacing down at them. The sliding door opens again and Sheppard joins the new guy at the grill, glancing up at Rodney. He grins, taking the plate from the other guy and marching back into the house.

"Hi," the newcomer says, with an abortive little wave in Rodney's direction. "You must be the new tenant."

"Rodney McKay," Rodney says, holding his beer up in salute. "It's a shame about your steaks."

"He likes them that way." He looks at Rodney and gives him a 'what-can-you-do' shrug. "I'm Lorne," he says with a home-grown grin a mile wide. "Evan Lorne. Nice to meet you."

There's probably something Rodney should say, like 'nice to meet you, too' or 'likewise' or 'why the hell is Sheppard cooking you steaks?' but Rodney's caught between not caring about the niceties and caring too much about other things, so he tips his bottle up, nods, and steps back into the apartment.

* * *

Every night for the rest of the week, Rodney cooks the most aromatic food he knows how, leaving the screen door open, just in case waving it in front of the air vents doesn't work.

The night he cooks lamb masaman curry, Sheppard leaves the house, climbs into his bright red penis extension, and comes back half an hour later with a bag from Woodberry Kitchen. He smirks at Rodney as he crosses the cement slab that serves as his deck, as if he knows Rodney's been trying to get a reservation at Woodberry's since he moved here, and there is no string he can pull to get him in sooner than three months from now. It's infuriating.

* * *

Rodney's hot water goes off every morning as soon as he's soaped up, like Sheppard's got a camera in his bathroom, which makes him paranoid. He searches the room from top to bottom and goes in to work half an hour late. They're working with the architects and interior designers; it's exhausting trying to explain how a restaurant kitchen has to work, and that it must have room to work and smooth flow from one area to the next and that while aesthetic is nice, it can't get in the way of the functionality in the kitchen.

He usually picks up dinner at a restaurant when he's not interested in making something himself, but he's feeling too tired to rip someone else's cuisine to shreds and the idea of cooking something for himself makes him shudder. He considers takeout, but it's been ages since anything but real food even interests him. He's dreading facing his refrigerator, and to top it all off, after he drags his ass out of his car and around the front of the house, he sees Lorne heading in the front door – with a key.

"Hey, McKay." Lorne grins, and Rodney waves without really making eye contact. He doesn't have enough energy to even talk to Lorne, much less pretend he cares… or that he doesn't.

Rodney eats a hunk of Vermont white cheddar and two jazz apples for dinner. He debates wine, but he's low, and Sheppard's bottle of Claret is sitting in the bottom of his wine rack, mocking him. To top it all off, he sees Sheppard from the window over the kitchen sink, Woodberry Kitchen bag in hand, something that's become a nightly ritual. Lorne comes into view, greeting Sheppard with his boyish grin and a peck on the cheek, which makes Rodney roll his eyes and turn away.

As he walks past the sliding doors, he can't help another glance at the pair of them, and Sheppard is kissing Lorne like his mouth holds the secrets to the universe. Rodney curses himself for being an idiot and draws the blinds shut on the sliding doors, but not before he hears Lorne's raised voice.

"...not a way to make McKay jealous..."

The rest of the conversation is snatched by the wind, but Rodney thinks he might like Lorne a little better now. He goes to bed, skipping the wine and turning an explosion-filled action movie on extra loud.

* * *

Rodney ups the ante the next day, not even sure why he's engaging in this prank war, except that it seems a lot easier to fight with Sheppard than to ignore him. He stuffs a banana in the tailpipe, not even certain that it will do anything; it's a sad fact of his life that all his non-property damaging pranks come from 80s movies.

Apparently it's not quite as harmless as he thought, since when he returns (late, late, late because he has to go over the oven specs _again_) there is a heap of garbage bags in his parking spot, and no red convertible in the one next to it. When he steps out of the recycled air of his car, the odor hits him. It smells like a particularly ripe compost pile.

He sighs and resigns himself to cleaning up the mess so he can park when he sees a rat scurry from one end of the pile to another. He yelps (in a very manly way), climbs back into his car, and takes several deep breaths to calm his loudly thumping heart. When it no longer feels like he's about to have a heart attack, he throws the car in gear, drives around the front of the house, and parks in front of the Pegasus Rehab and Renovation truck that's always parked somewhere on his block. He knows Teyla's company has several properties in this area, but it never occurred to him that she might live nearby until tonight. He should invite her over for dinner.

By the time the tomato tart is in the oven he's completely forgotten about the trash pile in his parking spot.

* * *

Rodney hits the snooze on the alarm, wishing he wasn't the only absolutely irreplaceable person in the whole restaurant project, because he'd like to be able to call in every once in a while. He slips back under for ten more minutes, then ten more, and ten more, before some horrendously loud ruckus in front of the townhouse drags him into consciousness kicking and screaming.

He gets up and glances out the window, assuming he's going to see a small army, or maybe a gaggle of screaming toddlers, but what he sees is a tow truck with his car's wheels in the air, about to pull away from the curb.

"No!" he shouts, throwing on his bathrobe and slippers and running down two flights of stairs too fast, especially for someone who is only awake because of an overflow of adrenaline.

"No, no, no!" he shouts, dropping his arms heavily when it's clear the tow truck driver won't stop for him. He glances at the sign he parked next to last night. _Street cleaning. No parking Wednesdays, 7am to 9am._

Damn Sheppard.

* * *

Rodney gets home late, after wrangling with the garage to let him get his car out, since he got there after the storage yard had closed. It took a two hundred dollar cash bribe, and that after he paid the hundred and twenty dollar bill for the tow, ticket, and storage.

The tarot shop's OPEN sign is blinking cheerily at him, and he scowls meanly at it. He slams his door and stomps extra loudly on the way up the stairs, pleased when he hears the bell on the shop door jingle, and he glances out his front windows, pleased to see a young woman hurrying to her car and glancing nervously over her shoulder.

He has no idea why it hasn't occurred to him before, and he grabs some raspberries and cream to tide him over while he sits on the window seat, waiting for customers to enter the shop. It's busier than he'd expected, though he probably should have guessed as much, considering Sheppard's Porsche. It only takes a couple of clompy footsteps to scare away the elderly lady, and scratching the vents gets the young man to leave in a hurry, but it takes everything he's got to scare away the pot-bellied middle-aged man that comes in around nine o'clock.

He hears the front door slam, and Sheppard follows the guy out, begging for him to come back. Rodney grins triumphantly, at least until Sheppard turns a murderous glare on him and heads for his door. He's thankful he locks it, because Sheppard looks ready to commit murder. He glares at Rodney and stalks back inside, and Rodney breathes a sigh of relief.

He heads into the kitchen to cook a celebratory dinner, looking over the skirt steak he'd bought yesterday. He pulls it out and starts a dry rub when a knock on the sliding glass door to his deck makes him drop the balsamic vinegar. The bottle breaks when it hits the floor, and the tangy smell is overpowering, the only thing that's getting through the fog of his tripping heartbeat to his brain.

He pulls his cleaver from the rack and goes over to the blinds. He knows it's Sheppard, though there's some small part of his brain squeaking that if Sheppard can get up here that easily, then anyone could, if they had the inclination.

He wields his cleaver as he pulls the blinds, and, as expected, Sheppard is standing outside his door, looking furious.

"How would you like it if I came to your job and scared away your customers?" he yells, banging a fist on the glass door. "It's not funny, Mckay."

"Neither is the three hundred dollars I paid to get my car back after it got towed this morning!'

Sheppard sneers, putting his hands casually on his hips. "Not my problem if you can't read the street signs."

"We'll see whose problem it is," Rodney says, with as much menace as he can muster.

"I wouldn't try anything," Sheppard says. "I can play just as dirty as you can and I know where you work."

Rodney laughs. "Like it matters! We're haven't even gotten to the renovation yet - it'll be months before you can scare away my customers."

Sheppard looks up at him, eyes sharp. Rodney has no idea what he said, but if it gets Sheppard off his deck, he doesn't care. A slow half-grin spreads along Sheppard's face, making him look positively evil, but before Rodney can make any sort of snide remark, Sheppard launches himself off the balcony.

Rodney rushes forward, unlocking the sliding doors and throwing himself out onto the deck. He's stupidly relieved to see Sheppard bouncing on a small trampoline carefully placed below his deck.

Sheppard sees him and grins up at him, like he knows exactly why Rodney's wearing a look of alarm. The relief at Sheppard's safety is immediately replaced by annoyance at his entire existence. Rodney stomps back inside, locking the screen door and pulling the blinds closed.

* * *

For the first time in a week, the hot water doesn't go off when Rodney showers the next morning.

* * *

The next two weeks are spent gloriously prank-free and Rodney sincerely hopes that this whole mess is behind him and he can get on with ignoring Sheppard like he should have done from the beginning.

Elizabeth's started to collect bids for the new kitchen, and Rodney spends too much time around a conference table, reviewing the contractors' bids with her and Caldwell.

He's pleased to see a reasonable bid from Pegasus. He hopes to throw some business Teyla's way – not just because he loves his apartment, but because she's the hardest working woman he knows and she deserves it. He looks through a couple of other bids by companies he doesn't recognize - the Genii Corporation and Manaria Ltd. - before he sees an incredibly lowball estimate by Sheppard Construction, Inc.

He takes the portfolio home to do his research, and discovers Sheppard Construction is owned by Dave Sheppard, John's brother. No wonder the pranks have stopped; he really was trying to get back at Rodney where he works. He has to prevent Sheppard from getting the contract.

"No," Rodney says the next day, waving the estimate in their faces. "Clearly they haven't looked at our required materials if their estimate is this low. There's no way they can finish the work in the time we're looking for at this price. I think we should go with Pegasus."

"They're twenty-five percent more expensive, McKay," Caldwell argues, and Weir pulls the estimate out of Rodney's hands and sets it down quietly on the table.

"I agree, this is too low," she says, and puts a finger up to keep Caldwell from debating the point, "but I think the best way to play this is to let them both put in another bid. Explain that we've made some adjustments and see what they come up with."

It's a sound financial move, but Rodney doesn't like it. Pegasus's estimate was spot on, with just enough room to make a small profit, and the last thing he wants is for Teyla to take a hit on the job. Still, he can't let Sheppard have it.

* * *

It takes three more bids, with Sheppard Construction lowballing the estimate every time, which makes Pegasus cut their margin closer to the line. They never underbid Sheppard Construction, but Weir is impressed with the integrity of their bids, which come with extremely detailed budgets, justification for every purchase and estimates for the major items. It takes a week for Weir to hand down her decision, but it's Pegasus, and Rodney can't help the slight fistpump he tries to hide under the table.

As soon as he's set free from the meeting, he calls Teyla.

_"Rodney,"_ she answers, and he can hear the smile in her voice. _"What can I help you with?"_

"Actually, I can help you. I've just been told by Elizabeth Weir that the contract for the Marriott is going to Pegasus."

_"That is wonderful news,"_ Teyla answers, and Rodney grins into the phone.

"I thought so. Why don't you come over tonight and I'll make us something to celebrate?" His mind goes to the fresh tomatoes he saw at Whole Foods this morning and quinoa recipe that he's been trying to perfect for a couple of weeks now.

_"I should really tell my partner,"_ she says, and Rodney stops in his tracks. _"He handles the new construction - I deal mostly with rehabbing the local townhouses."_

"Oh," Rodney answers, and then with an uncharacteristic surge of bonhomie, adds, "Well, invite him to dinner. I never cook enough for just two. About eight?"

_"That would be lovely,"_ Teyla answers. _"See you at eight."_

* * *

Rodney isn't so much nervous about Teyla's partner coming to dinner as he is _terrified_. He has no idea why he thought it would be a good idea to invite someone he's never met over for dinner.

He sets and resets the table, changes four times, and goes out twice for wine – bringing home two reds, three whites, and two dessert wines. By ten to eight, he's pacing in the kitchen, hoping they show up on time or the quinoa is going to be a soggy mess.

_"Rodney?"_

He hears Teyla's voice immediately following her knock, and before he can even yell down, she's tramping up the stairs, laughing on the way.

He greets her at the door, taking her coat and kissing her on the cheek. When he steps back to be introduced to her partner, he sees John Sheppard standing in his doorway.

"You?"

Sheppard grins, slow and lazy. "Me."

"So, what," Rodney says, "you just read tarot cards in the evening?"

Sheppard smiles again, this one more calculating and less lazy. "You're really all about judging the book by the cover, aren't you?"

"John," Teyla says, putting a hand on his arm. "Why don't you give Rodney the wine?"

Rodney winces. He's still got Sheppard's claret in his rack, and taking another bottle – a decent pinot grigio, perfect for the quinoa – makes him even more uncomfortable.

"Rodney," Teyla says quietly, "can we come in?"

Rodney backs up far enough to let them into the mud room, hanging up Teyla's coat and accepting the wine from Sheppard. "Thank you," he says stiffly, setting it on the butcher block.

He's not sure what to think about Sheppard's apparent career change. "So," he starts, determined to make small talk. "How long have you been in the construction business?"

Sheppard laughs, slapping Rodney on the back, and grabs one of the tomatoes Rodney's got set aside for the appetizer. "Hey," Rodney says, grabbing the tomato back, "I need that." He pulls out his corkscrew and hands it to Sheppard. "Why don't you open the wine?"

It distracts Sheppard long enough for Rodney to get the appetizer perfectly set up on their plates, and by the time they sit down, Teyla's given him the history of Pegasus Rehab and Renovation, and clued him in to the fact that Sheppard and Lorne are friendly exes and nothing more.

"Mmm," Teyla says, mouth full of tomato. "And these are from Ronon's farm?"

"Of course," Rodney says, taking a bite to avoid saying anything. Sheppard raises an eyebrow, and Rodney sighs. "Truck Patch farms, specializes in organic vegetables and free range meats."

"Ronon tells me he and his wife are looking for some help with the animals," Teyla says, and Rodney takes another bite of tomato as Sheppard's mouth drops open. He mouths _wife?!_ at Rodney behind Teyla's back. Rodney shrugs. "I don't know. Ronon doesn't talk shop with me."

It's a complete and utter lie, but he really doesn't want to talk about Ronon anymore, or ever, and Teyla is breezing through this conversation while he and Sheppard squirm in their seats. He's going to have to revise his estimate of her as a decent human being.

"Anyway," Rodney says, pushing away from the table to pull the quinoa out of the oven, plating it with the haricots verts and herb butter, "without a major expansion, he won't be able to sell to the hotel. Most of his produce goes to Woodberry Kitchen."

John chokes on a sip of wine, and Teyla smacks him sharply on the back. "That is where Lorne's new boyfriend works, yes? Manager, I think?"

Rodney sets down the plate of quinoa in front of Teyla and holds Sheppard's just out of reach. "So that's how you get Woodberry's every night."

Sheppard swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing. He nods, putting his hands up to take his plate from Rodney.

"And that's why I can't get a reservation to save my life?"

Sheppard smiles sheepishly, lowering his hands as he nods. Rodney sighs and hands him the plate, privately thrilled that Teyla's vegetarian, so at least he didn't have to cook any meat for Sheppard.

"I've never had quinoa before," Sheppard says, and Rodney's not surprised.

"It's for advanced palates," he answers, smiling smugly.

"And vegetarians," Teyla says, rolling her eyes. "You two should bury the hatchet before you have to start working together." She's inhaling dinner like a Hoover, and Rodney's appetite was limping along before watching Teyla eat, but now he's utterly uninterested in dinner, wine, or even the chocolate ganache he made for dessert.

"Teyla's right," Sheppard admits, and damn it, Rodney should have beat him to it so Sheppard didn't have the upper hand. "I don't know what I did, honestly, but I'm willing to be the bigger man and apologize first."

"What?!" Rodney shouts, standing up. "Really? Not telling me you're my downstairs neighbor when you first met me, or–"

"I didn't know when I first met you," Sheppard says, not shouting, but louder than Rodney's ever heard before.

"Fine, then before you first _kissed_ me!"

"_You_ kissed _me_!" Sheppard yells, and before Rodney can even answer that, Teyla chugs the rest of her wine and stands up.

"That was lovely, Rodney." She leans in and kisses him on the cheek. "And I really must be going. Good night."

He and Sheppard both turn to look at her, dumbfounded, and watch her throw her coat over her shoulder and walk out the door, slamming it shut behind her.

When Rodney looks back over at Sheppard, he's glad to see Sheppard looks as sheepish as he feels. "All right, I suppose I overreacted to your disingenuousness."

"Rodney, you left me standing on our first date, yelling that I'd never be welcome at your table. Or anything else."

"Yes, I remember," Rodney says, taking a gulp of his own wine. "But thanks for bringing up one of my finer moments."

"What have you got against tarot readers anyway?" Sheppard asks.

Rodney scowls. "I have a problem with people who scam other people for a living."

"It's not a scam." Sheppard leans back in his chair and grabs his wine glass. "Not like pretending this stuff is a real dinner."

"Oh, ha ha. Quinoa is full of protein, and vegetarians have a hard time getting it their diets. You should try it when it's not cooked properly. Like eating lead shot."

Sheppard laughs and puts his hands up. "Okay, okay. And I suppose there are charlatans out there reading tarot cards."

Rodney gives him the stinkeye.

"Come on, it's not true of everybody," Sheppard says. "Let me give you a reading." He stands and heads to the door. "Am I going to be able to come back up if I leave?"

"Are you sure you can do a reading without your purple drapery and crystal ball?" It doesn't come out as sarcastically as Rodney would like, but Sheppard turns around and grins like he appreciates the effort.

"I'll manage."

He clomps downstairs and into the tarot shop, and then Rodney can't hear anything more. He pulls out a bottle of chardonnay and some scallops he was saving for after Teyla left, and starts the brown butter to go with them.

By the time Sheppard comes back in, Rodney's got the scallops in frying in the pan and Sheppard looks ridiculously grateful. He's holding an oversized deck of cards, blue with some sort of astronomical thingee on them. "Pretty," Rodney says, since he's apparently willing to try working things out.

Sheppard looks down at the deck. "Oh, yeah, I guess so." He shrugs. "Smells delicious."

"Thanks," Rodney says, and nods his head at the table. "Want to clear the plates and I'll dish up?"

Sheppard sets the cards down and Rodney flips the first one over. It has a man, surrounded by breasts and vaginas and penises, looking off into the distance. He sighs.

"Whoa," Sheppard says when he comes in and looks down at the card. "Did you just pick that out of the cards?"

"It was the top card," Rodney says, "why?"

"It's me," Sheppard says.

_Figures._

"Huh." Rodney says, and grabs one of the plates from Sheppard, throwing the quinoa into the sink and giving him three of the five scallops and brown butter. "Here."

He takes the other plate and dumps the quinoa into the sink, running the garbage disposal for a second before dishing up his own scallops. Sheppard grabs the cards and they head back in to the dining room.

"So what are you doing in my cards?" Rodney asks, taking a bite of the scallop. It's nicely browned and the texture is perfect. He sits back and smiles at Sheppard, who's got his eyes closed while he chews his own.

"Is this what scallops are supposed to taste like?" he asks when he finally opens his eyes. "Because I don't think I've ever had them done properly before." He takes the second one and closes his eyes again before Rodney can answer.

Rodney picks up his wine glass and watches Sheppard eat. He watches Sheppard pick up the last scallop with his fingers, close his eyes while he chews it with a look of ecstasy on his face, and then open his eyes and lick the butter off his fingers. Rodney drains his chardonnay, pouring another glass as Sheppard smirks at him.

"So," Sheppard says, picking up the cards and giving them a strange sort of shuffle. "Let's see what I can learn from the cards, shall we?"

Sheppard shuffles them six more times, and then places them in three piles in front of Rodney. Rodney waits, unsure what he's supposed to do.

"Put them together again," Sheppard says, and watches Rodney carefully. Rodney looks at the piles objectively and puts the shortest stack on top. Sheppard laughs, and Rodney's already sick of this game.

"You know what, just forget it."

"No wait," Sheppard says, catching Rodney's sleeve as he stands up. "I was just laughing at the fact that you picked the middle stack. Nine out of ten of people pick the middle stack." Sheppard slips his fingers down to grab Rodney's hand, his fingers in the cup of Rodney's palm, thumb a light pressure on the back of his hand. "Come on, don't be a spoilsport."

Rodney sighs and sits down heavily. "Whatever, it's all bullshit anyway."

John laughs and shoves Rodney's untouched plate out of the way, putting a card down right in front of Rodney. It's the same card as before, the man with all the sexy stuff around him that doesn't seem to be paying attention. "Oh, nice trick," Rodney says, "do you do parties?"

Sheppard looks concerned, though, and flips another card over the top of it, crossways. This one is a red card, a red-haired man staring indolently up at them. "Huh," Sheppard says, and Rodney reads the text at the top of the card. Knight of Wands.

"What's that mean?" Rodney asks.

"I got that card..." Sheppard starts, and then determinedly flips over another card. The cards are pretty, obviously done by an artist, and as Sheppard flips over card by card (Virtue, Ace of Cups, Hanged Man, Success, Truce) in some strange pattern that makes absolutely no sense to Rodney.

The top card in the strange cross pattern is the Knight of Cups. The boob-man is the Prince of Cups; maybe they're related. Rodney sighs and tries his second scallop. It's cool and a little rubbery now, and most of it ends up back on his plate.

The last card Sheppard turns over in the straight line next to the cross has a nine on it and the word Happiness.

"Okay, that's freaking me out," Sheppard says. "I have to go get Lorne."

"What for?" Rodney asks. "What do these cards mean?"

Sheppard's already out of his chair and halfway across the kitchen. "Don't touch them. Just... sit there and don't touch anything."

Rodney has no idea where Lorne is, or why Sheppard can't just _call_ him like a normal person, but he decides to clear the table, anyway. By the time he's finished, Sheppard's clomping back up his stairs, with another elephant that must be Lorne. What the hell is Lorne doing in Sheppard's apartment when Sheppard's not there?

Rodney finishes rinsing the plates and reminds himself he doesn't care. When Sheppard's not-so-smug face appears in the door, he waits for Lorne to get to the top of the steps and shoves him in first, like a ward against evil or something. "On the table," Sheppard says. "You didn't touch them?"

"No, I didn't touch them," Rodney says. "Hi, Lorne."

"Hello," Lorne says, looking around, his gaze settling on the empty bottles of wine. "Sorry for intruding on your dinner."

"It's fine," Sheppard says, and Rodney kicks at him as he hustles Lorne through the kitchen and into the dining room.

"I'll just dish up dessert, shall I?" Rodney asks the thin air. "I think I shall, thanks, ganache sounds delicious."

He prepares three plates with cocoa powder and fresh raspberries, then makes quenelles of the ganache and places them in the center, all while Lorne and Sheppard talk in low voices so Rodney can only catch snatches of the conversation. "...my cards..." "...you always do..." "...he stacked them..."

He grabs the plates, balancing the extra on his arm and walks into the dining room, where the men are bent over the cards, and Lorne is pulling them apart like he's doing surgery. "That's new for you," he says, pointing at the Happiness card and looking up at Rodney. "Oh, I don't need any, thanks."

"You're here," Rodney says, shoving the plate at him, "which makes you my guest, whether or not I was the one who invited you."

"Uh, thanks?" Lorne says, but takes the plate and immediately dips his spoon into the ganache. "This looks terrific."

"You're welcome." Rodney grabs the plate off his arm and handing it to Sheppard. "Hope you like chocolate."

Sheppard grins, the first wholesome grin Rodney's seen; it makes him look roughly twelve. "I love chocolate."

Rodney does too, so he takes himself around the table to sit on Lorne's other side, trying to figure out what the hell they're looking at. There are a lot of naked and half-naked people on the cards; the rest look stormy and a little frightening, except for Happiness, which looks like a patchwork quilt. He's never seen a tarot deck up close before, but this isn't exactly what he'd expected.

"So Rodney," Lorne says, after cleaning his plate, including scooping up as much of the cocoa powder with the ganache as possible. "Let me guess, you have a thing for clean lines and bold colors on black and white backgrounds."

Rodney leans away from Lorne a little before he realizes he's just handed a white plate with red raspberries on it to him. "Anyone that's seen me plate food knows that."

Lorne chuckles. "I'm sure." He turns to Sheppard. "This is _your_ deck, you idiot, no wonder the reading is for you. His deck is the Adrian deck. That's the one that'll work for him."

Rodney is torn between asking how many possible decks there are and asking why Sheppard's deck has all the naked people in it. Before he can ask anything, Lorne turns to him and says, "If you really want a reading, I'll have to run downstairs and get a different set of cards."

"_You're_ the tarot reader," Rodney says, disgusted it took him this long to puzzle it out. "Oh for crying out loud, what makes you want to scam people for money?"

Lorne shakes his head, boyish grin still firmly affixed. "Whenever you want that reading, McKay, come down and see me." He gathers the cards with all the naked people on them and lets himself out.

"Why would you let me continue to think you were a tarot reader?" Rodney asks, standing to collect the plates. "You couldn't just say, 'By the way, Lorne reads tarot cards in the shop downstairs?'"

Sheppard follows Rodney into the kitchen, standing with a hip cocked against the counter while he watches Rodney rinse the plates. "Thought I'd give you a fake reading, you know, there's a tall, dark, handsome man in your future?"

Rodney chuckles and turns the water off, stepping toward Sheppard to grab the towel hanging off the drawer he's leaning against. Sheppard doesn't move, though, and suddenly Rodney's in too close to be comfortable, but too off balance to back smoothly out. He puts a hand on the counter to steady himself, but it's wet and skids along the marble instead.

"Whoa," Sheppard says, catching him by the shoulders before he takes a dive. "Better be careful there, chef."

"Huh," Rodney says, still standing too close to Sheppard for comfort. Sheppard leans forward this time, _thank god_ Rodney thinks just before his eyes close.

Sheppard squeezes Rodney's shoulders, taking his sweet time, long enough that Rodney's torn between wanting to open his eyes to see what's going on and keeping them shut forever to avoid the humiliation he knows is waiting. Before he can make up his mind, Sheppard leans in the rest of the way, _finally_, and Rodney's eyes roll back in his head. He's keenly aware of his wet hands, limply hanging at his sides while Sheppard takes his sweet time kissing him, tentative, like Rodney didn't do exactly this to him last time he was in the kitchen.

Being unable to touch goes from being vaguely annoying to too frustrating to stand, and Rodney puts his hands on Sheppard's dress shirt, grinning into Sheppard's mouth at the thoughts of wet handprints on his stomach and waist. Sheppard rests his weight on Rodney's left hand, pressing his side into Rodney's palm like it was carved out of marble to fit there.

Rodney's knees nearly give out when Sheppard puts his teeth on the tendon in his neck, no pressure, just a signal, or a mark of what's to come, maybe. "John," Rodney sighs, and something in his brain flips a switch. _John_, he thinks. Yes, _John_. Thinking about that makes Rodney even weaker-kneed... and then sick to his stomach.

"Wait, wait," he says, using the hand that John's leaning against for leverage. "We're working together."

"Not for a week or so," John says, and leans forward with a determination Rodney's sure he'll appreciate in about six weeks.

"You signed a contract," Rodney says, backing out of reach. "And I think it'd be worse to have this and then give it up than to wait."

"I can be discreet," John answers, following Rodney around the island. "C'mon, Rodney, do you really want to wait eight weeks?"

"No," Rodney answers, then, "Hey! You said you'd be able to finish the work in six weeks."

"Every contractor ups their complete date when they're in a bidding war," Sheppard says, and Rodney jabs a finger in his chest from the safety of his position behind the butcher block.

"Well, you can find a way to get the work done on time, because I'm not waiting a day over six weeks."

* * *

John picks over his movie selection while Rodney finishes cleaning up the kitchen. By the time he gets to the living room, John's sprawled on his couch and the opening credits to _Casino Royale_ are just finishing. John leans up on an elbow and pats the couch next to him.

Rodney sits and John appropriates his thigh as a pillow. That would be problematic, if John didn't fall asleep the second he stopped moving. Rodney makes it through the train scenes before he's ready to conk out too, and he eases himself out from under John and covers him with the hand-knit afghan Ronon gave him last Christmas. When he gets up for work the next morning, the blanket is neatly folded on the arm of the couch, and John is nowhere to be found.

* * *

The next six weeks are surprisingly boring.

Rodney's got two days to pack up shop before Sheppard's crew comes in to revamp the place, and he's determined to use it to weed out staff while he can.

He has the staff pack the kitchen - highly unusual, he knows, but they're going to be out of work for six weeks without pay, so most of them don't complain about getting an extra day or two of work in before the layoff.

They start packing the first day, Rodney watching things closely and firing two servers for stacking the dishes indelicately.

"They're going to chip!" Rodney shouts, pulling one out of the box with a giant crack to illustrate.

The server mumbles something and Rodney grabs him by the ear and frog marches him from the restaurant. The hotel manager - Caldwell, who normally can't seem to agree with Rodney about anything - nods his approval as the kid is kicked to the curb.

When he comes back into the dining room, the room is completely still, the entire staff staring at him wide-eyed.

"He said, 'they're only going to a shelter, what's the big deal?'" Rodney looks around at the staff, catching the eyes of every single person in turn. "Anyone else care to echo his sentiment?"

The room erupts in a flurry of motion, and packing recommences. Rodney pulls Simpson, Chuck, and Amelia aside and they sneak off to prepare lunch for everyone. He pulls off a beautiful seafood stew thanks to Simpson's fast shelling and Chuck's surprising ability to swiftly chop vegetables. Amelia handles plating and expediting, and come noon, Rodney calls a halt to packing so they can all have lunch.

A few full plates return to the kitchen, but most of them slurp right out of their bowls, so Rodney nods pleasantly and explains that the rest of them will be assigned to teams to prepare a meal for the next day and a half. Zelenka and Teldy come through with flying colors, though he has to fire Teldy's prep cook and take over himself to actually get lunch out before two o'clock. Kavanagh's team crashes and burns, and he fires all of them except Grodin, who did triple duty as he tried to manage a sinking ship.

Once the staffing issues are settled, he splits his time between interviewing candidates for the chefs and servers he fired and checking in on Sheppard's progress. They have lunch together every day and Rodney spends the entire hour picking apart the food of wherever they eat. John spends the entire hour whining that there's no KFC within walking distance.

They work themselves into a routine in the evenings, too, the first couple of weeks making it an every other night thing until Rodney gets sick of hearing John's action movie of choice coming up through the vents on their 'nights off' and clomps downstairs to pull him out of his lazyboy and up to Rodney's couch.

Every night from then on, John falls asleep draped all over him and Rodney stays awake as long as he can, settling a warm hand on John's back and pretending to watch things blowing up on his gigantic TV. He leaves John curled up on his couch when he goes to bed, and wakes up every morning to a folded blanket and strange empty feeling that doesn't seem to go away no matter what culinary masterpiece he makes for breakfast.

* * *

The day of the grand opening gala, Rodney spends all day in the kitchen, overseeing the amuse bouches that are miniature portions of their signature dishes, plated on saucers so they looked exactly like quarter-size replicas. Zelenka's got an eye for detail, so he expedites the serving trays on their way out the door, and Rodney only comes back to check on them a couple of times an hour.

John and Teyla are at the party for a while; Teyla begs off around ten and John offers to take her home. Rodney presses the newly-made key to his apartment into John's hand before he leaves, and John smiles a little, right around the eyes, and squeezes Rodney's fingers.

Rodney shuts down the kitchen sometime after midnight, leaving the last of the cleanup to Simpson, who chases him out the door with a raised eyebrow and caustic remark. John's asleep on his couch when he gets home, Auguste curled up in his arms, and Rodney sighs, flipping off Die Hard four and throwing a blanket over John.

* * *

Rodney wakes up suddenly the next morning, sitting straight up in bed with his heart pounding. He's not certain, but it sounded like his door slammed shut, and if John Sheppard folded up that damn blanket and went down to his apartment on the only morning Rodney's had off in the last seven weeks, Rodney is going to kill him.

He throws the covers off and pounds down the stairs, noting the blanket folded neatly as ever over the arm of the couch, Auguste winking at Rodney without even lifting his head from the angora. Rodney's heart sinks, though he checks the dining room and kitchen just to be sure John isn't just making himself at home. He sighs when he looks around the kitchen, and decides to make omelets and bring them downstairs. If the mountain won't come to Mohammed...

He hears John clomping up the steps, his heartbeat almost as loud and twice as fast. He twirls his whisk while he waits for the door to open. He has no idea why John would have needed to go to his apartment, but he's looking forward to mocking him mercilessly for whatever it is (he has half a thought that it has something to do with using Rodney's bathroom, something Rodney cannot remember John doing in the three months he's known the man).

When the door finally opens, John is carrying a tray with two boxes of cereal and a gallon of milk on it. The boyish grin that had been plastered on his face fades when he sees Rodney in the kitchen.

"What are you doing up?" he asks petulantly. "I was going to bring you breakfast in bed."

"Apple Jacks and Cocoa Puffs," Rodney says, unable to keep from grinning. "Classy."

John sets the tray down on the counter. "I was just hoping to keep you out of the kitchen for a while," he says, looking genuinely put out. "It was supposed to be a surprise."

Rodney sets down the whisk and puts the eggs back in the fridge. "I'm awfully tired," he says, yawning as he stretches his arms overhead. "Think I'll go back to bed."

He glances back at John before leaving the kitchen, catching him rearranging the tray, and throws over his shoulder, "And I sure could use some Apple Jacks."

He hears John's braying laugh and heavy footsteps moments behind him on the stairs.

**Author's Note:**

> One of my many story ideas for mcshep_match that didn't come to fruition. My prompt was _a house divided_ (and I was on team war) and this was a literal take on that prompt. Posting now as part of my [solstice advent calendar](http://kate.dreamwidth.org/tag/solstice+calendar). Thanks to several people for beta and encouragement on the way, including silverraven (this one's for her because she likes chef!Rodney), ribbon_purple and spillingvelvet.


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